A New World
by phoenixdown7
Summary: USxUK “I’ve hurt so many people, Arthur,” Alfred’s voice was soft and thick with emotion. “I thought I could fight it. With my ideals, my principles, my freedom. I thought I could fix it, but...you can’t escape fate,can you?”
1. At the Twilight's Last Gleaming

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Hetalia nor the various countries in the world

A New World

Prologue

At the Twilight's Last Gleaming

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_They brought us parrots and balls of cotton and spears and many other things, which they exchanged for the glass beads and hawks' bells. They willingly traded everything they owned. They were well built, with good bodies and handsome features…they do not bear arms, and do not know them, for I showed them a sword, they took it by the edge and cut themselves out of ignorance. They have no iron. Their spears are made of cane. They would make fine servants. With fifty men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want. _

-Christopher Columbus, speaking of the Arawaks of the BahamaIslands

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Powhatan Confederacy, Virginia, 1607

"Come, young one. You must be hungry."

The toddler nodded, his stomach growling in agreement as the beautiful woman took his small hand in hers. She smiled down at him and they walked through the forest, dappled with sunlight that filtered through the leaves above. Their bare feet stepped upon the soft soil and natural debris of the forest floor, the mud was cool between his toes and he flexed them every time his feet sunk into the ground. They passed by a raccoon fastidiously washing its hands in a nearby stream and the boy giggled, prompting the woman to smile down at him.

The raccoon merely stared at them, and the boy waved back as he toddled along in the woman's wake.

"I know who you are, little one." Her voice was soft, but her smile was warm. "You feel like my sister, my brother, and the land beneath my feet. Do you not feel it too?"

Her hand squeezed his and he thought for a moment, but the answer was obvious to him and he giggled, "I'm not yo sistow!" He retorted in the way only a child could, confident and headstrong when stating the obvious. "I'm yo bwothow!"

Her smile grew, a joke quirking her full lips. "Of course…you are much too manly to be my sister."

He nodded, satisfied with her acquiescence. "An' you awe my sistow!"

"But I am not your only sister," she replied, picking him up as they came upon a large log that barred his path. "Our family is large."

"Wiw I meet dem?" he asked, clasping a bunch of her long, obsidian hair in his small grip as she cradled him in her arms.

"In time," she replied with a soft smile. "We do not always get along."

She laughed when he pouted.

"Patience, my little brother." And she kissed the top of his blond head, the wayward strand of hair at the top brushing the smooth, olive skin of her cheek. "You must first meet my people and my chief. What shall I call you by?"

"My name is America!" he replied happily, the fact as certain to him as his familial ties with the woman.

"That's a strange name," she teased. "It befits a strange child."

"Hey!" He pouted and muttered sourly. "I'm not stwange."

She laughed, but didn't protest.

He forgot about the slight, however, when they soon entered a large village full of round houses. Several women were walking between the dwellings, carrying baskets of corn, while some men sat in front of fire pits, roasting various cuts of meat. The air was filled with the chatter of the masses – women speaking to each other as they carried their baskets, side-by-side, men conversing in groups while they kindled fires in front of the houses. However, the chattering would stop when his sister carried him by, those closest stopping to stare at him. He stared right back, noticing how much they looked like his sister, even in what they wore.

Some bowed to his sister as she walked passed, and she nodded back in return, walking purposefully toward the center of the village as her hand soothingly stroked America's back through the thin white cloth he wore.

He stared in awe as the round houses got bigger and the village more densely populated. The air smelled like cooking meat and corn and yet again his stomach rumbled. He sent his sister a sheepish smile and she smiled back. "Almost there, little brother."

She navigated through the crowds of people, mostly made up of women carrying baskets through the dirt paths and further into the village or animatedly chattering amongst themselves. Some would settle the baskets down in front of a house and set about preparing the fire pits. Although, as soon as anyone noticed America in his sister's arms, they would stop what they were doing completely and stare at him. Even small children would stop running by to ogle him, some doubling back to get a better look.

Beginning to feel uncomfortable, America shifted within his sister's arms. "Why awe dey staywing at me?"

"Because you are special," she replied, although she sent some gawking children a reproving look and they hurriedly averted their eyes.

"Special?" He repeated, staring up at her.

"Yes." She didn't offer anything further, and America just frowned in confusion, his child-like mind whirring with questions unanswered.

Suddenly, his sister stopped in front of a man who was standing in front of the largest house he had ever seen. The man was well-built, which was easy to see with his sparse leather clothing, and he stood with a straight, upright posture that made him look stoic and strong.

"Weroance," she addressed the man and he bowed to her, before staring a bit at America. Her voice became notably harsher than before. "I wish to see Wahunsunacawh."

He seemed to notice the reproach in her tone, because he immediately stopped surveying America with wide eyes and bowed to her again. "Of course, Powhatan."

Weroance moved aside, revealing an opening into the large dwelling.

She carried America across the threshold and he clung to her further as they entered a large dark room. He coughed the moment he breathed in the air, thick with smoke. A large group of people were sitting around an intricately woven mat in the middle of the room. There were four men, two women, and two young girls, and they were all partaking of a wooden pipe, passing it around the group as they conversed. He watched the process with some fascination as one of the young girls took the pipe to her lips and breathed in, exhaling a thick white smoke from her mouth. It smelled bitter, and he wrinkled his nose a bit in distaste. It didn't take long for the people to notice they had visitors, and the moment they caught sight of him in his sister's arms, the dwelling went silent.

The largest man, his leather clothing, feather headdress, and jewelry more ornate than the others, spoke first. "Powhatan, who is this you bring?"

"Good evening, Wahunsunacawh," Powhatan greeted with a bow. "This is my little brother."

The others in the room all gasped and murmured to each other at this revelation.

"I found him in the woods, and I have taken him here to greet you and know his family."

"He looks like those foreigners," a man to Wahunsunacawh's right who was wearing a smaller feather head dress stated, watching America suspiciously. "He does not look like he is of our family."

The young boy frowned a bit and unconsciously burrowed his face into his sister's shoulder. Her hand instantly came up to rub his back soothingly, protectively.

"I know of what I speak, Opechcanough," Powhatan replied. "He is the same as me. Our spirits share this land along with our siblings."

"That may be so, but you cannot deny his likeness to the men along the shore," another man, wearing three feathers and more simple clothing, stated. Although he looked much kinder as he looked upon the toddler in her arms. "It is strange, is it not?"

She paused. "Perhaps, Opitchapan," she sighed. "But there is no doubt that he is of this land."

"Then he knows not of the colony?" Opechcanough pressed with a tone of clear disbelief.

"What's a cowony?" America spoke for the first time, tugging on his sister's hair to get her attention.

She smiled, but forwent a reply to his question in order to answer Opechcanough. "As you can see, he knows not."

Opechcanough looked about to protest, but Wahunsunacawh raised his arm, silencing him. He nodded toward Powhatan. "We will, of course, welcome him as your family and ours, Powhatan."

Powhatan smiled and moved to sit down where there was space in the circle, gently settling America in her lap.

"Welcome, little brother," Wahunsunacawh greeted, his smile suddenly friendlier than before. "I am Wahunsunacawh, the chief of this tribe. These are my brothers, Opechcanough, Opitchapan, and Catatough." He gestured toward the three men who all nodded except for Opechcanough who looked away with a frown. "These are my sisters, Aroughcun and Utchunquoyes, and my two daughters, Amonsoquath and Matoaka." The women and girls smiled and waved at America, giggling when he blushed at the attention and buried himself more securely in Powhatan's embrace. Wahunsunacawh smiled. "And how may I call you, little brother?"

The toddler didn't speak until Powhatan prodded him a bit, smiling down at him. He finally mumbled his reply. "I'm America."

The occupants of the room murmured at that.

"Such a strange name," Mataoka observed, laughing a bit.

"But it's pretty, isn't it?" Amonsoquath added, giggling.

"mm…" Mataoka replied, sobering as she seemed to give more thought to it. "Yes, it is."

America pouted at the exchange. He didn't like it that everyone seemed to think his name was odd. It made him feel embarrassed and unsure for the first time in his very short life. Besides, he had always been happy with it.

"It sounds like a name from those foreign invaders in the south," Opechcanough stated, his tone dark.

"What does it mean?" Aroughcun asked, her warm brown eyes gazing upon America, apparently waiting for an answer.

America shrugged awkwardly, the pout still on his lips. He didn't know what it meant and that fact alone made him more self-conscious. Powhatan rubbed his arm lightly, clearly attempting to soothe him.

"Let's give him a nickname!" Mataoka burst out, looking very excited. "He can have one like mine."

"Be still, Pocahantas," Wahunsunacawh chided her. "Every name has meaning, even if one does not know what it is."

Mataoka went silent, smiling sheepishly.

"However, as it is custom," Wahunsunacawh continued, nodding in approval at his daughter's obedience. "We will feast and have medicine woman Sassacomuwah ask the spirits for his tribal name."

"A new name?" America asked, both excited and afraid. He liked his name, but he also wanted to have a name with meaning.

"It is how you will become part of the tribe," Powhatan replied. "The spirits will find your name and reveal it to us so that we may know your spirit and greet it properly. Only then can you truly become a part of our family. It is a very important ceremony, one that spans many generations."

Everyone around the room nodded at this explanation, their expressions suddenly solemn.

America nodded, although he was still a little uncertain. After all, he had never seen or heard of spirits before and he didn't know if he would like the name they gave him. "Okay."

Powhatan smiled at him encouragingly and then Wahunsunacawh summoned for food and some tribeswomen entered the dwelling, carrying baskets of cooked meat, berries and corn. They all ate and conversed, laughing at some good jokes and turning serious when the topic called for it. Powhatan fed America some cut meat and ripe berries, which he dutifully consumed. The berries were sweet and tangy on his tongue and he ate them with such abandon that Powhatan was forced to wipe his mouth and cheeks of all the juice. She gave him a stern look, but he only giggled, and eventually she relented and laughed with him, tickling him until he was squirming in her lap.

Both Matoaka and Amonsoquath sat beside them after they had finished their own portions. America was a bit wary of Matoaka at first, but it was hard for him to stay as such with her natural charisma and pretty, delicate features. He watched her long, black hair swish around hypnotically as she gestured during one of her stories – regaling them all with her adventures with some friends in the forest that day.

"And then I dared Accomodemsk to lick it!"

"No!" Amonsoquath gasped, looking disgusted.

"Oh yes!" Matoaka replied proudly. "And he did it too."

"Oh, gross!" Amonsoquath exclaimed.

"I know!" Matoaka agreed. "I always knew he was an idiot."

Amonsoquath and Matoaka then devolved into a fit of giggles, but Powhatan only sighed. "That poor boy."

America agreed wholeheartedly. For even as young as he was, he knew he wouldn't want to lick a slug.

Once they were done with their meal, Wahunsunacawh summoned the medicine woman, Sassacomuwah. An old woman with long, braided gray hair shuffled in, her right hand clasped around a long knotted stick with bones, beads and feathers tied to the top that clanked against each other every time she moved. She bowed as much as her stiff limbs would allow her as she greeted Wahunsunacawh, before taking her place at the middle of the mat.

"A newcomer is in our midst, I see," the medicine woman rasped, her voice weakened by age.

"Yes, Sassacomuwah," Powhatan replied. "This is my little brother, America. We wish for you to speak to the spirits on his behalf."

"America…" Sassacomuwah murmured softly, her milky eyes surveying his tiny form with great interest. "America…"

America could only stare at her. Something about the way she looked at him scared him to his very core. Her eyes seemed to read his soul, extracting all he truly was with a single glance.

"I will do as you ask, but…" she paused to sit down, placing a leather sack tied off with beaded string next to her on the rug. "I suspect the spirits will have much to say. Much more than a name."

The others in the room murmured, and America's gaze slipped to Opechcanough who was watching him with a menacing gleam in his eye. America tried not to tremble as the medicine woman laid out the contents of her bag. There were bones of small animals – rodent skulls and rib cages, raccoon hands and eagle beaks – and there were feathers of all shapes and sizes. She arranged all of these upon the mat, piling some, one on top of the other, in a pattern America couldn't understand. All along she was chanting something under her breath.

When she was done, she sat up and picked up two rocks, one for each hand. She was completely still, her eyes closed, but her chanting grew louder, and her clothing rippled in a wind that wasn't there. America trembled, his eyes wide with fear, but Powhatan was gripping his middle with one hand as if to protect him.

Suddenly, Sassacomuwah slammed the rocks together, sending blue sparks onto the mat and alighting the objects in a blue blaze. America stiffened, thinking that the fire would consume the thatched mat beneath, but it did not. It only consumed the bones and feathers and did not give off any heat, only white smoke that swirled above it, rising slowly to the ceiling.

The medicine woman's chant grew louder and the rock dropped from her hands into the pile. The blue blaze grew, crackling as the smoke thickened, twisting and swirling as if it was alive. The room was awash in a blue glow that lit up the faces of all who watched. America pushed himself back into Powhatan's embrace as far as he could go, his small body shaking.

The medicine woman picked up her stick and swung it through the smoke, cutting it in half, her chant growing louder and louder as the smoke came back together.

Then she stopped and the room was deathly silent, only the fire crackling as the smoke writhed above it. Every eye was trained on the smoke and America noticed it was because it was changing shape. As he stared, the smoke grew wings, transforming in shape to resemble an eagle flapping its wings, and with each flap it created a notable wind that blew through the room. It opened its beak and released an eagle's cry.

"Opotenaiok," the medicine woman stated. "That is his true name."

Every eye was on him now. They looked surprised, some even afraid. Even Powhatan's arms had gone slack around him. He looked up at her to find her staring at him, wide-eyed.

The smoke eagle cried again and the smoke turned red, leaving the sound of people screaming. At first America thought it was from the others in the room, but none of them had uttered a sound, it was coming from the smoke.

"The great eagle will bring death and destruction to us all," Sassacomuwah stated. "And our tribe will never recover. He will have a power we know not and cannot fight. His ascension marks our downfall."

Then the fire went out and the screaming ceased, and there was left a deafening silence. Powhatan was no longer cradling him in her arms and everyone in the room was staring at him with horror etched into their faces. Tears were running down Matoaka's face and her sister had a hand over her gaping mouth. Sassacomuwah was merely surveying him with that same calculating gaze, piercing him with fear and denial.

He didn't understand. He was too small and inexperienced to understand what it all meant, but he was scared and shaking like a leaf as Powhatan picked him up and wordlessly left the house. Tears stained his cheeks and his small fingers clenched and unclenched the folds of her clothing as she silently carried him through the village.

They entered the forest and she set him down in a clearing next to the river.

She stared at him, hands clenched at her sides, her mouth turned into a deep frown, but she did not speak. She didn't say anything at all, before she turned her back on him and began to walk away.

"Sistow!" He cried, his voice broken with tiny hiccoughs.

She stopped, but didn't look back. Her voice was thick, as if she too was on the verge of tears, but her words were harsh. "I am not your sister and you are not my brother. Never set foot in my tribe again."

America watched her leave until he could no longer see her through the trees, and then his tears fell more rapidly and he wailed with the grief of a child abandoned.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Just outside Jamestown, Virginia Colony, 1607

"Can I call you brothow?"

The man actually blanched, but with pleasure or displeasure, America did not know. He waited with bated breath, trying hard to hide his anxiety that the man, with the bright blond hair and verdant green eyes, would not want him either.

"No," The man replied and America tried to mask his hurt. "Just England is fine."

America nodded, his arms clenching self-consciously around the soft bunny he held – the only companion he had.

England held out his hand, smiling softly down at him. "Would you like to come with me?"

America nodded, and for the first time since being abandoned, he dared to hope that he could find somewhere he'd belong.

"Then I shall raise you and protect you as my little brother," England replied, his green eyes twinkling in such a way that America was mesmerized by them.

America smiled brightly, closing his eyes against the small tears that prickled at the back of his eyes as the man looked down at him warmly. America carefully placed his bunny upon the grass and kissed it goodbye, before stumbling over to England's side and sliding his small hand into the man's larger one.

"Let us go home." England murmured.

"Home," America repeated with his first true smile.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Arthur found himself shivering. The earth was wet around him as raindrops pounded into his clothing, soaking into his skin. He felt the hard cold surfaces of a musket gripped within his right hand and a sense of dread settled within his stomach as he noted that he was wearing a familiar blood red uniform. He looked up, half-expecting to see an army in blue coats staring him down, but there was nothing - nothing but a large, grassy field, rimmed by a dark forest in the distance.

He had no idea where he was – or rather, he knew exactly where he was, but it defied reason. This place was a painful memory associated with the end of a painful war, but it now seemed barren with the exception of his lonely presence. It could have been a dream, but the pain in his limbs felt incredibly real.

He attempted to stand and gain his bearings and his body ached in a way reminiscent of the last time he was here. He trembled, chilled to the bone, and jumped a bit when a bright flash of lightening lit up the sky. Thunder soon followed, rolling across the planes of grass and vibrating through the ground at his feet. He peered around him, but his vision was obscured by a thick mist which rose up from the rain soaked ground and covered the clearing.

Then someone else's voice cut through the rolling thunder.

"Have you ever had your life flash before your eyes?"

Arthur quickly glanced to his right and noticed that someone was sitting upon a large rock with their back to him. His gaze caught on the familiar navy blue coat and the unmistakable piece of hair which stuck up, defiantly against the pounding rain, from the top of the man's head.

"A-Alfred?" He stuttered, eyes widening in surprise as he stepped toward the man on the rock.

The man in question didn't even turn his head to respond.

Arthur frowned, watching the uncharacteristically stiff man as he made his way awkwardly around the rock, his boots sinking into the mud with every footfall. He was preparing to give Alfred a piece of his mind, but the habitual insults fell away from his tongue the moment he made it to the other side and looked upon Alfred's face. The man's complexion was unnaturally pale and his usually vibrant blue eyes were dull like the gray clouds above. Alfred didn't even acknowledge him with a glance, instead his eyes seemed to be focused somewhere over Arthur's right shoulder, off into the distance.

"Alfred…" Arthur began, deeply unsettled. "What's this about? Where are we?"

Slowly, Alfred's gaze slid toward him and he shook his head, speaking lowly as if to himself and no one else. "They were right. I thought I could fight it…" He laughed a little, although it looked pained, and shook his head again. "I thought I could beat it…and prove to them that…"

"Who?" Arthur questioned after a long pause in which Alfred seemed to not want to continue. "And prove what?"

Alfred shook his head again, his soaked bangs sticking to his face. He looked utterly despondent, and something ached within Arthur's breast, although he didn't exactly know the cause. "I thought I would have more time…"

"More time for what?" Arthur pressed. Alfred was not acting himself, and the rain was pounding down around them.

Arthur wiped at his eyes, nearly blinded by droplets that clung to his lashes as rainwater streamed down his face. Alfred's continental army uniform jacket and pants were fully soaked through and his blond hair was darkened, bangs matted to his forehead as rain drops ran down his cheeks and hung on the tip of his nose. Although, unlike Arthur, he didn't seem to notice or care about the state he was in.

When the despondent American failed to respond, Arthur kneeled in front of him, grabbing his broad shoulders tightly and shaking him a bit – as if he could shake Alfred's usual cheer and optimism back into him. He splutterd a bit as rainwater slid into his mouth, nearly unable to speak. "More time for what…Alfred?"

Suddenly Alfred looked at him and there was such pain in his eyes that Arthur nearly had to look away, a strange sense of fear beginning to grip him. "Alfred…what's wrong?"

"I've hurt so many people, Arthur…" Alfred's voice was soft and hoarse, his lips tugging down spasmodically as if he was trying to suppress himself from crying. "I thought I could fight it…with my ideals…my principles…my freedom…I thought I could fix it…I thought I was on the right path…but…" Alfred shook his head and smiled a bit, but it looked strained, ironic. "You can't escape fate, can you?"

"Alfred…" Arthur stared at the younger nation as Alfred seemed to wait for him to answer. Maybe he had hoped that Arthur would be able to provide some sense of comfort, but in his confusion, he could provide nothing. "What are you on about?"

Alfred ran a shaky hand through his wet hair and stood up. Arthur followed suit, doing his best to ignore the aches and pains still permeating his body. He could only watch as Alfred agitatedly paced back and forth in front of him.

"I just…wish…I could do it all over again…" Alfred's voice sounded thick, as if he was actually crying, but Arthur couldn't tell, because the rain was drowning out whatever tears Alfred might have shed. "I wouldn't have…I would have found a way to do it right…there wouldn't have been so much suffering…so much death and pain…and for _what? What_ was it all _for?!"_

The last question was shouted, and Arthur had to force himself from stepping back. He could feel a wave of anger ripple off of the American and nearly crash against him, but it dissipated almost immediately into a profound despair.

"There wasn't only death," Arthur stated as Alfred went unnaturally silent. The American was cradling his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. For a reason not entirely known to him, Arthur felt desperate to prove to Alfred that his life hadn't all been in vain – and some of that desperation bled into his voice. "It is true you haven't been the most perfect of nations. In fact, you have been a right daft prat on many occasions, but you have done much good as well. You have saved countless lives, and given opportunity to countless others."

The rain stopped and Alfred lowered his hands, looking at Arthur. He smiled a bit, but pain etched itself into every line of his face. "H-how can you say that…when I hurt you too?"

Arthur stiffened, and was immediately made aware of their uniforms and the field in which they stood. "Alfred…you don't have to…"

Alfred shook his head and stepped forward and raised his calloused fingers to trace Arthur's cheek.

"No…I do…" Alfred murmured, and Arthur was stiff from the intimate touch as the American's lower lip trembled.

The American gazed down at him sorrowfully and caressed Arthur's cheek with his thumb in such a way that it made Arthur's breath hitch. "A-Alfred…"

Alfred laughed a bit, but it was broken as his eyes slowly filled with tears.

"Alfred…what's wrong?" Arthur questioned, his own voice wavering uncertainly, but the thumb that had been caressing his jaw moved to caress his lips.

Arthur's lips parted involuntarily and he gasped. Tears were now rolling freely down Alfred's face and Arthur could feel his own throat constrict even further with the raw emotion in Alfred's eyes.

"I know I hurt you…" Alfred murmured thickly, gently moving his thumb across Arthur's lips and making them tremble. "I know I've been hurting you…"

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Alfred's thumb stopped moving and pressed against his lips to silence him.

"I always called myself a hero…I p-pretended I could fix everything…d-defeat anyone…but…" Alfred was nearly sobbing now, his breath hitching intermittently. "I was always, _always_ afraid."

"I was so m-much more…afraid…than I should have…b-been…" Alfred removed his hand from Arthur's cheek to wipe at his own tear-stained face. "And I was _so_ a-alone...."

"Alfred…" Arthur's voice was hoarse. "That's not true…I…"

Alfred's lower lip trembled when the words caught in Arthur's throat and he did not continue. "You…what?"

Arthur looked away, feeling strangled under that pleading gaze.

"A-Arthur…" The American stepped closer, and slid his hands on either side of Arthur's face, tipping his head so that he couldn't avoid his gaze. The younger man's voice was a broken whisper, but Arthur heard it as if the words had been shouted into his ear. "You…_what?_"

"I…" Arthur licked his lips, distracted by the feel of the American's warm hands on his cheeks, but he couldn't ignore the pleading look Alfred was giving him. "You…were never alone…Alfred. I was…always there."

New tears rolled down Alfred's cheeks and he let out a harsh breath as if he tried to laugh, but sobbed instead. "A-Arthur…you don't know how much that…" he paused, closing his eyes for a few moments, as if regretting what he had been about to say. His eyes opened shortly afterward and Arthur could see the drops of tears clinging to the man's eyelashes. "I-I was always too afraid to tell you…that…"

Alfred leaned in closer and Arthur's heartbeat quickened. Alfred was so close now that Arthur could feel the man's warm breath fan out across his lips and he shivered involuntarily.

"I…" Alfred's voice was soft. "I should have told you long ago that I…"

Arthur noticed the soft look in Alfred's watery eyes as he gazed down at him, and suddenly he knew what was hiding in their depths - what may have been hiding there for a long time now.

"I...love you…" Alfred whispered the confession, his breath caressing Arthur's lips, and then closed the scant distance between them.

There was something so indescribably heartbreaking about the gentleness of the kiss that Arthur had to close his eyes to ward off the tears. Alfred's lips were wet and salty and his lips left Arthur's every few moments to take in quick, unsteady breaths.

Arthur latched onto him, that same bewildering sense of loss and desperation taking over his senses. His hands clasped onto Alfred's broad back and he could feel the shudders of the American's silent sobs vibrate through his arms and chest. Alfred finally collapsed against him, his lips leaving Arthur's to trail wetly down his jaw and throat, until Alfred's face was buried in the junction between Arthur's neck and shoulder. The American's sobs became more pronounced, his large arms encircling Arthur's narrow shoulders and desperately pulling the Englishman against him.

A memory of Arthur holding a distraught Alfred when he was only a toddler flashed before Arthur's eyes, and he looked up to see the world around them was now gone, replaced by a white void. The field no longer existed and there was no longer the sound of wind in the grass or a storm on the horizon.

"Alfred…you feel so far away," Arthur whispered, his voice hoarse as his own tears finally spilled down his cheeks.

"I'm still here," Alfred murmured brokenly, his voice muffled by the red cloth at Arthur's shoulder. "I love you, Arthur…I always have…even when I hated you…I loved you."

Arthur let out a pained sigh and buried his own face into Alfred's shoulder, his hands clinging to the cloth on Alfred's broad back as if he was a lifeline. He didn't know why those words on Alfred's lips made his heart tremble with despair, because he also…

Alfred abruptly pulled back, forcing Arthur to loosen his hold as he looked Arthur in the eye. Alfred caressed Arthur's wet cheek with his thumb, his eyes warm. "I just wanted you to know, to see you again, before I..."

"What's happening, Alfred?" Arthur questioned, his vision blurry. "Why do I feel like this is goodbye?"

Alfred gave him a watery smile, his eyes infinitely sad.

"I wish I could do it all over again…" Alfred said, his tone almost wistful. "I would have done it better. There are so many things I..." He closed his eyes and frowned as if mentally banishing the painful thoughts.

He leaned in and placed another tender kiss to Arthur's lips. Arthur closed his eyes and kept them that way, trying to keep more tears from escaping down his cheeks when Alfred finally pulled back.

"I'm glad I was able to see you again, Arthur."

Another hitch of breath.

"G-goodbye."

The silence became so profound that it pressed against Arthur's ear drums and he opened his eyes only to be greeted by a vast emptiness.

As he had feared, as the overwhelming ache in his chest had been warning him from the very beginning…

Alfred was gone.

Arthur woke up in a cold sweat, gasping and shaking uncontrollably. He covered his face with his hands and felt his sodden cheeks as new tears replaced the old, and a sense of devastating agony tore at his heart.

He sat up shakily, a fresh sob wracking through his body with such force that it left him with no voice as he released it and he curled within himself, his fingers fisting into his hair. The next sob extracted a pained whine and it held for a long time before he finally gasped for breath and sobbed again. Each time he clenched and unclenched his fists helplessly or pulled at his hair, barely feeling the pain in his scalp as the pain in his soul consumed him. He could barely breathe, his chest tight, his muscles twitching, as he drowned in despair.

Eventually a wave of nausea assaulted him and his stomach wound so tight that he could barely prevent the bile from traveling up his throat before he made it to the bathroom and retched.

Shaking and gasping over the toilet bowl, one of his government liaisons found him.

"Sir, I…" The man suddenly looked hesitant as he peeked through the open door of the bathroom and noticed Arthur's condition.

Arthur's breath hitched, but he forced himself to stare into the toilet bowl, unseeing, his body still twitching spasmodically as he tried to calm himself down. His voice was tellingly hoarse. "What is it?"

"Sir," the man's voice was low, but Arthur heard it clearly. "The United States has fallen. Her government has collapsed. As of yet, it is unclear if there are any survivors."

A second wave of nausea hit him and Arthur's stomach rebelled as he heaved and released more of its contents into the bowl.

"The Prime Minister requests your presence."

_Alfred…_

no…

"I'm sorry, sir."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

AN: I'm sorry if the format of the story was in any way confusing in this prologue. I hope that as the story progresses, the time-jumps will make more sense. I planned it so that the back story would support the present narrative within each chapter. So as the fic progresses, more of the context will be fleshed out.

Some of the names of the members of the Powhatan tribe alluded me no matter how much I searched, notably for Chief Powhatan's sisters and daughter other than Matoaka (Pocahantas), and the medicine woman. So I decided to supplant some of the names with Powhatan words for animals:

Aroughcun – raccoon

Amonsoquath – black bear

Utchunquoyes – cougar

Sassacomuwah – snake

Accomodemsk – tortoise

Opotenaiok – bald eagle

I couldn't find descriptions of Powhatan spiritual practices, so please forgive me for taking some liberties. In my head-canon, just as for Arthur, magic really does exist.

I hope you liked it at least a little bit. I sort of agonized over this…and it's only the prologue. DX

To be continued…


	2. By the Dawn's Early Light

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Hetalia nor the various countries in the world

AN: Sorry for the wait, for any who may have been waiting.

Warnings: I did as much research as I could for this fic, and this chapter in particular, but the information therein has a high probability of not being correct 99.99% of the time. If you know that something is wrong, and you know how to make it right, please by all means write it to me in a review. If not, then just take the technical aspects of this fic with a grain of salt. I try to be accurate, but I'm really not an expert on half of this stuff.

So, with that said…enjoy.

A New World

Chapter 1:

By the Dawn's Early Light

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_Jamestown, Virginia Colony, 1607_

America awoke with a start, his little heart beating frantically as thunder rolled in the air and rattled the windows of his room. His eyes darted, trying to gain his bearings and remember where he was before a horrifically bright blue light filled his room through the window and nearly blinded him.

_No…no…no…not again!_

He screamed, his small body trembling so spasmodically that the frame of his bed shook. Thunder rolled in soon after – too soon – and he vaguely tasted blood in his mouth as his teeth worried the flesh of his lower lip. Another flash of blue light filled his room and he thought he could see the eagle form against the shadows. The scream that ripped from his throat was louder this time, and soon heavy footfalls hit the creaking wood floor outside his bedroom.

America jumped, his face wet and his vision blurry when the door pushed open, revealing a man standing silhouetted in the doorway against the candle light in the hall. He was about to scream again, but the intruder interrupted him.

"Alfred? What is the matter?" The man's voice sounded concerned, but America stiffened as thunder rolled again in the distance beyond his window frame.

The man strode into the room and knelt by the bed, close enough that America could see the emerald green of his eyes, their gaze searching. America finally recognized him, but he couldn't relax, his voice caught in his throat. England looked tired, but still dressed in his day wear, wearing a dress blouse and his buckled boots. A warm hand fell upon America's shoulder and the toddler twitched.

"What happened, Alfred?" The voice was soft but urgent then his green gaze twitched down to America's abused lip. "You're bleeding, child."

England searched for a cloth in one of his sleeves and pulled it out to dab at America's lip, his thumb and forefinger gently holding America's chin in place. "What were you thinking, abusing it so?"

Another flash of lightning filled the room and America flinched away from England's touch, his eyes wide, gaze twitching around the room like a wild animal in a cage.

"It is only lightning, Alfred," England stated, a hint of exasperation coloring his voice. "It can't hurt you now."

"It's the spirits!" America blurted, fresh tears falling from his eyes.

"Spirits?" England questioned, although he looked intrigued rather than disturbed.

America nodded tremblingly. "T-the eagle from the blue flames with the bones and dead things."

England watched him for a bit, before he sighed and sat upon the bed so that he could pull America against him, the palm of his hand a warm and heavy weight against America's small shoulder and arm. America could hear England's voice vibrate through the man's ribs and against his face, and it soothed him somehow. "I do not know of this eagle spirit, but I too have seen spirits."

"You have?" America questioned, turning his head to look up at the man's face in wonder, forgetting for a moment his own fear.

"Of course," England replied matter-of-factly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I have seen many things, but I can assure you, little Alfred, that this is not a spirit but the phenomenon of lightning. A quite natural occurrence and one we must all suffer periodically."

"But…it looks a lot like it," America murmured, vaguely gazing down at his hand as it clenched the cloth of his wool blanket.

"That may be so, but it is not one and the same," England replied, his voice softer. "I would know if it were."

"How?" America asked, although it wasn't inquisitorial, merely curious. After all, he had a trusting nature, and he had grown to trust England implicitly during the weeks under the man's care.

"I can feel them," England replied mysteriously, his gaze darting about the room as if scanning for them at that very moment.

"Hm," America replied, thinking it over as much as his little mind could facilitate. He had taken to the expression days earlier after hearing England make the same sound on the many occasions when his men came to the house and sought his counsel. America would watch the way England's lips tightened together as he hummed, a thoughtful expression taking over his features in a way that made him look mature and poised. In those moments, England was the exact antithesis to America in every way, and America felt drawn to it. America generally preferred action to thinking, but he liked England's thoughtful, quiet expressions best of all, and he would often strive to emulate them as best he could.

England looked down at him with amusement until America, having thought it over, nodded to himself and relaxed. "Alright."

"Good," the man replied and made to get up just as lightning flashed and filled the room once again.

America grabbed onto England's sleeve, his body still trembling a little with the new stimulus as the man looked down at him questioningly. America swallowed, but was unable to keep the stutter out of his voice. "C-can I sleep with you tonight?"

England sighed, but he paused before relenting and motioning for America to come along. "Alright, but only for tonight."

America nodded and England helped him off the bed, his bare feet connecting with the cold floor as England took his hand and led him to his larger bedroom.

America was tucked in for a second time that night before he felt the bed shift as more weight was added beside him. He watched England's back as the man sat on the edge of the mattress, working to get off his shoes and stockings. Finally, the man turned and lay down on his side beneath the covers, facing America. America shuffled forward, unabashedly cuddling against the man's warm chest. He heard England sigh, the breath pushing through America's golden hair, before a hand came up to stroke his small back soothingly.

"Sleep, Alfred."

America nodded and rubbed his forehead more securely against the man's chest. The last thing he was aware of before he drifted off was the light touch of lips upon his head.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_London, United Kingdom, 2012_

Arthur awoke as if from a dream and into a nightmare. He felt hot and yet chilled to the bone, this throat tight and painful every time he swallowed. His mouth was dry and tasted like vomit, and his head pounded with pain.

Arthur let out a long groan as the light hit his eyes and stabbed at his retinas, his vision was still too blurry to really see anything with definition and he looked around his person frantically. He was in a car, that much was certain. Something was pounding…pounding against the windows…and people were shouting.

"Sir, are you awake?" The voice was concerned and came from his left.

He looked over to see one of his liaisons – Perkins, was it? – sitting beside him in the back seat, watching him with worry. Arthur looked past the man's shoulder at the windows where fists and hands were pounding against the glass, their owners screaming and jostling against the car.

"What's happening?" Arthur croaked, the act extremely painful.

"Utter bedlam on the streets, sir," Perkins replied as he too looked past Arthur to the windows. The car was moving at a snail's pace through the bodies. A siren blared from the roof. "The police are escorting us to Westminster."

"Westminster?" Arthur repeated, his voice raspy, and he attempted to swallow a lump in his dry scratchy throat that wouldn't go away.

"Yes, sir," Perkins nodded. "The Prime Minister requests an audience. The Queen and Parliament are convening to discuss matters of national security in the aftermath of the States' collapse."

And then the horrible truth came back to him, and Arthur had to shut his eyes. He had forgotten. Alfred…

He clenched his fists and suddenly found he did not have the energy to reopen his eyes or do anything at all.

"Sir? _Sir?_"

Arthur lost consciousness to the sound of flesh hitting glass and hundreds of frightened cries.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Evie, come look at the telly!"

Evie stopped brushing her teeth in front of the bathroom mirror and let the brush hang in her mouth as she walked out to the common area of her flat, where her flatmate, Darcie, was sat watching the morning news. She sighed impatiently, hoping this distraction wouldn't take long as she had overslept and was already late to work. "What is it?"

But the blonde woman just waved a hand at her, beckoning her to the telly as she barely spared her a glance. Evie sighed and made her way over to the screen. The picture showed BBC footage of crowds in the streets, shouting in front of large buildings. The news anchors sounded unusually harried as their narration cut over the footage.

…due to this terrible calamity, riots have broken out across the United Kingdom today and reports indicate that a similar situation is taking place all across the world…

The picture changed to similar footage in front of the L'Arc de Triomphe in Paris and then the Vatican in Rome. In some places, there looked to be thousands upon thousands of people congregating in the streets.

…banks and lending houses have completely frozen transactions. Fear over the collapse of one of the world's largest economic powerhouses compelling the institutions to freeze assets and discontinue lending until the crisis has abated. Barclays, which had large investments in American corporate stock and assorted assets, has narrowly avoided collapse…

"What…?" Evie began, but her flatmate cut her off, making a shushing noise and then pointing down at the bottom of the screen.

Evie read the headline in big bold white letters on a red ticker, 'United States government collapses, world in turmoil'.

Evie's eyes widened. "Collapsed? What do they mean, collapsed?"

Darcie finally looked at her, her bright blue eyes wide with shock that rivaled the sense of unease growing within Evie. "They're all dead, they said. Every one of 'em _dead_!"

"Who?"

"The American politicians!" Darcie's voice rose a few octaves, her hands gesticulating wildly. "All of Washington, dead. Just like that!"

Evie's legs went weak and she quickly gripped the edge of the sofa. Dead? The American government completely collapsed? What did that even mean? _How_ could that have happened? She almost couldn't get her head round it.

…all air traffic to and from the States has been halted and there is no word from Westminster if stranded British citizens within the United States will be rescued as turmoil breaks out over the streets of …

wait…hold on…I'm receiving some new information…yes…reports now confirm that the crisis has hit more than just Washington and includes every major city on the eastern seaboard. There have been eye-witness reports of large numbers of people found dead on the streets of New York, Boston, Atlanta, and…

I must interject Jane, a male anchor's voice cut in. We have a caller here from New York, a British man named James Caldwell…

Evie gasped, one hand flying to her mouth and Darcie sent her a wild-eyed look. _No…_

Hello, James?

Y-yes, hello?

Evie muffled a cry with a hand to her mouth. Even through the static and poor connection, she recognized that voice.

We're with you, James. Tell us, what is the situation there?

T-there *pshhht* dead bodies everywhere *psshhht*

I'm sorry James. You're cutting in and out.

*psshhht* so sudden, I *pssshhht* only a few survivors.

James, can you tell us how this happened?

I *pssshhhht* not know. Oh God…*pssshhhht*

James…James?

I'm sorry we seem to have lost our caller.

"No!" Evie shouted, distressed, as if the news anchors could hear her through the screen. She couldn't believe it…she hadn't even known he was out of the country at the moment…

"Bloody hell, Evie!" Darcie stared at her with a horrified expression, her long pink nails digging into the upholstery of the sofa. "Was that your father?"

Before Evie could reply in any way, the doorbell rang. They stared at each other in an awkward, horrified silence, before Darcie finally got up to get the door and Evie collapsed on the couch, face buried in her trembling hands.

"Eve Caldwell?"

Evie looked up, her eyes embarrassingly wet and puffy as she met the eyes of a square-jawed, red-haired stranger in a perfectly fitted, black suit. He was standing in the small common space of the flat, his figure imposing and motionless like a statue, as Darcie swayed nervously behind him. "Y-yes?"

"You have been called for a mission by the Queen."

"S-sorry?" Evie stuttered, completely flummoxed. She had no idea what business the Queen would have with her. She was just a nurse at the local hospital.

"You are the apprentice to Mary Clark?"

Apprentice…well, she didn't exactly know if one could call it that, but… "Yes?"

"I regret to inform you that Mrs. Clark has passed just last night."

Evie gasped, her body stiffening under the weight of the news. After her mother had died, Mary had been like a second mother to her. She was more than just her superior and mentor at the hospital, she was the woman who invited her to Christmas dinner with her family and comforted Evie when she had learned that her mother had a terminal form of breast cancer. "No…not Mary…"

She tried to pull herself together. She refused to cry in front of this stranger. Besides, she had a sickening sense that if she began crying now, she would never stop. "How did it happen?"

"The coroner thinks it is natural causes," Agent Thomas replied, and then elaborated as if thinking he hadn't been clear enough. "Old age."

Evie stayed silent, taking this in. She knew Mary was old, but she had never seemed infirm or near death. She was always so full of energy and her mind was as sharp and quick as ever. She certainly kept the other nurses on their toes.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," Agent Thomas muttered, appearing uncomfortable for the first time since he had entered the flat. "By order of the Queen, I have come to escort you to Westminster."

"Who…?"

But he cut her off by pulling out a badge that read very clearly 'MI5' on the top. "Agent Thomas, Security Service, ma'am."

"But…"

"Ma'am," Agent Thomas interjected, his expression meaningful as he paused. "One does not refuse the Queen."

"I-I suppose not," Evie relented weakly, feeling as if her entire world had turned upside down on its axis, and given all the terrible news that morning, maybe it had.

She gathered her things and allowed Agent Thomas to escort her to the lift, but Darcie grabbed her by the sleeve of her coat. The bleach-blonde woman looked frightened. "Evie…"

Evie turned around and hugged her, feeling an unexpected well of affection for a flatmate who she usually had trouble standing at the best of times. Darcie clung to her, before she finally pulled back.

"I'll see you soon," Evie stated reassuringly, although she didn't know if she could keep that promise, and Darcie seemed to sense this.

Darcie misted up a bit, and she sniffled, her voice a bit affected when she replied, "I'll be sure to get more eggs…we're running low."

Evie nodded and tried to smile – after all, it was simply ludicrous for anyone to be thinking of buying eggs when the banks were closed and the state of their hard-earned wealth had become frighteningly uncertain – but she failed - the news about her father and Mary, above all, driving her mood decidedly toward the negative.

She nodded to Agent Thomas and entered the lift, never knowing as the doors shut that that was to be the last time she would ever see her flatmate.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Major Adams!"

Troy turned around to see his first lieutenant waving a landline phone at him from across the room.

"It's the General," the man explained, and Troy made his way over to the man's desk through the bustling mass of cubicles between, nodding to him as he took the phone.

"Yes, sir?" Troy spoke into the phone, vaguely gazing out the window as he heard his superior's gruff voice come to life on the other end.

"Major Adams?"

"Yes, sir." Troy had to place a hand over his free ear so that the noise from the rest of the busy room wouldn't distract him.

"Report to my office at 0900, you've been assigned a mission." And then the feed disconnected with a soft click.

Troy hung up the phone and rubbed at his eyes before glancing at the clock on the wall. It was five til. Troy nodded to his first lieutenant once again and made his way through the room and into the hall, nodding to various lower ranking military personnel as they saluted him before continuing on their way.

The New NATO headquarters in Brussels was busy, and had been for the last several hours since intelligence broke that Washington had been compromised. As far as their intel could tell them, all military and governmental personnel in the United States had either died or were unreachable – and there still was no conclusive evidence for how it had happened.

Troy almost couldn't believe it, and despite his years of military training, he could not have prepared for the blow it was to hear that his homeland's government had completely collapsed, the nation left in utter lawlessness and its people unreachable through normal lines of communication. Everything just seemed to be gone – like a total blackout had consumed the entire nation and left complete confusion and fear in its wake.

There were also now reports that the devastation had hit more than Washington and the dead were piling up in cities like New York and Atlanta. Every once and a while survivors would manage to call someone in the media outside of the US and the gruesome details would come out. Thousands dead on the streets in almost every city on the eastern seaboard – cause unknown.

Troy wondered, not for the first time, how his parents were. They were living in San Diego, and he hoped that that fact alone kept them alive. But the world was on fire and he couldn't imagine what that meant for the well-being of those inhabiting western states like California.

And NATO couldn't do anything because the culprits and means of attack were unknown. Hell, it was even in doubt if it was an attack. The delegations and military personnel on the North Atlantic Council were unsure whether or not they should send troops into a situation that involved mass deaths and little intel. For all anyone knew, the United States could have been attacked with massive quantities of a biochemical agent – something that spread through the water or even the air in enclosed spaces. In those circumstances it was deemed too dangerous to send anyone. They were practically left twiddling their thumbs, waiting for the next scrap of information to escape the United States and fall into their laps. In the meantime, the decision-making was left to each individual nation on what the next steps should be, and that could take a while.

He turned down a larger hallway, civilian and military personnel passing him, expressions strained and determined. He got to the end and knocked on the door.

He heard a grunt from inside and entered, stepping forward to the desk where his superior sat and saluted crisply, locking his heels together. "General Sumpter."

"Major Adams," General Sumpter nodded. "At ease."

Troy relaxed his stance and crossed his hands behind his back. "You have a mission for me, sir?"

"Yes, Major," the grizzled veteran nodded, before lighting a Cuban cigar and sticking it into his mouth. He looked up at Troy and spoke out the side of his mouth. "They can't keep me from smoking in here now that the world is ending."

Troy merely waited as Sumpter took a long suck on the cigar and blew out the smoke into a few good sized rings. The General finally relaxed and sat back in his chair, surveying Troy through the smoke.

"Ambassador Mitchell has asked me to delegate a top-secret mission to one of my subordinates," Sumpter began, eyeing him critically. "And I thought you would be an excellent man for the job. What with your pedigree. Are you up for it?"

"Yes, sir," Troy replied, knowing that Sumpter's idea of a pedigree referred to Troy's unusual experience in both the CIA and the US Marines.

"Very good," Sumpter smiled and sat forward. "This is a mission from the highest office, the commander-in-chief, to be carried out in the event of his incapacitation or death, and since we are now effectively the next in line in the chain of command, it falls to us."

Troy nodded, heart beat racing at what type of mission this could be. It sounded both dangerous and important, and given the stakes of their situation, he didn't doubt it would be either of those things.

"The mission is to guard a man named Arthur Kirkland," Sumpter stated gruffly and he passed a manila folder across the desk that Troy took.

Troy opened the file and saw a photo of a man with unusually thick eyebrows, blond hair and green eyes. He was scowling into the camera, making him look older than he probably was – maybe in his early twenties at most. Beneath it was a letter signed by the late President, but further below his there was another signature. Troy squinted, trying to make it out. The scrawl was almost illegible, but he managed it.

_Alfred F. Jones_

Troy's gaze stuck to the name. Something drew him to it, as though he should know it, but didn't. It was a strange feeling.

"You'll be departing for London at 1300," Sumpter continued, before taking another drag from his cigar. "Ambassador Mitchell has already informed the Queen and the Prime Minister and you'll report to the Prime Minister once you arrive. He will debrief you on the specifics."

Troy flipped the President's letter over but there were no other pages left – no information or stats on this Arthur Kirkland – no birth date, nationality, age, or address – no reasons given for his importance. "Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Permission granted," Sumpter replied with a slight smirk, as if he was expecting the request from the very beginning.

"Who is Arthur Kirkland and what makes him so invaluable that the President of the United States would order protection for him at the time of his death?"

"That information is classified, Major," the General replied monotonously as if reading from a cue card, then paused. "..is what the Ambassador told me. So, in other words, I don't know, but the man must shit bricks of gold and shoot rainbows out of his ass with the amount of resources allocated to him by the United States government. Especially during a national crisis such as this."

Troy cracked a smile and nodded, "Yes, sir." The General always had a way with words.

"Get packed and ready by 1200, Major," General Sumpter smirked. "You're about to take a trip to merry ol' London-town. Try not to impress too many of those Brit gals with your American charm – we're a hot commodity now."

Troy smirked back despite himself. He really shouldn't have been amused by the sentiment, but the General really did have a way with words.

Besides, if the world as he knew it was ending, he would rather laugh than cry as it crumbled around him.

"Good luck, Major," the General stated a little softer this time.

Something lodged in Troy's throat at the expression on the General's face – for one second of clarity, he could see the old, frightened man beneath the unflappable, brash exterior and it sent a sudden chill down his spine.

"Yes, sir." Troy saluted and left, his smirking mouth twitching into a frown, the General's vulnerable expression haunting him.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"This isn't Westminster," Evie stated as she stepped out of the black car, Agent Thomas holding the door open for her with a black briefcase in his other hand.

"Change of plans," Agent Thomas shrugged, which looked an oddly casual gesture for someone in such a perfectly fitted suit. "Welcome to Thames House. MI5 headquaters. Please follow me."

He gestured toward the front of the building, which was Imperial Classical in style and pleasing to the eye if not a bit redundant in design and imposing on the landscape. Dark clouds were gathering above it and Evie could hear the faint shouts of the rioters on the streets in the distance.

Feeling more than a bit put-off by this 'change of plans' business, Evie followed Agent Thomas to the front door where he flashed his badge to a guard and led her into a lift that took them to the fourth floor. He led her down a hall past a row of offices with people working at their desks and into a room on the left at the end. He held the door open for her and she entered to find the room only furnished by one desk and two chairs, a single light hanging from the ceiling. Evie suddenly felt apprehensive. It looked like an interrogation room straight out of one of those Hollywood crime films.

Agent Thomas either didn't notice her discomfort or didn't care as he stepped into the room and gestured to one of the chairs. "Please have a seat, Ms. Caldwell."

She hesitated for only a moment before sitting down and she watched as Agent Thomas sat down across from her, the single light elongating the shadows on his face and making him look sinister. She suddenly fully appreciated that he was a special agent for the government.

He picked up his briefcase and opened it on the desk.

"I am going to debrief you on your mission, Ms. Caldwell," he explained as he pulled out some documents. "But first I must ascertain that you are qualified for the job."

Evie merely nodded, having no idea what she had gotten into, her hands twisting in her lap beneath the desk.

"I just need to ask a few questions," Agent Thomas stated, pulling out more papers and scanning some of their contents, before looking up at her. "A survey, if you will. Do you accept, Ms. Caldwell."

She thought about refusing, but something held her back. She was curious. She wanted to know what this was about and what it had to do with Mary Clark. "Yes."

"Alright," Agent Thomas nodded then began to read the documents. "Where were you born, Ms. Caldwell."

"London," she replied. "At Royal Brompton Hospital."

"And when were you born, Ms. Caldwell?"

"14 August 1983."

"How old are you, Ms. Caldwell?"

"29."

"What is your eye color, Ms. Caldwell?"

Evie raised her eyebrows, but he continued to look at her questioningly. "Erm…hazel."

"And what is your hair color, Ms. Caldwell?"

"Black."

"And your skin color?"

Well, all of these questions were utter rubbish as each was more obvious than the last, but she humored him. "Light brown."

Agent Thomas nodded a bit before turning the page. "And what is your ancestry, Ms. Caldwell?"

She gave him a look, before replying. "My father is Anglo-saxon and my mother is Jamaican."

"How long has your mother lived in the United Kingdom?"

She sent him another look. "She's deceased."

"How long had she lived in the United Kingdom before her untimely passing?" He asked without missing a beat.

Evie paused and tried to count it up in her head. "32 years…I think."

"How old was she when she entered the United Kingdom and took up residence?"

"27."

"What was her motivation for taking up residence in the United Kingdom?"

"She wanted a better life…I think," Evie replied uncertainly, irritated with the question.

Agent Thomas nodded and turned the page, and she was relieved to hear the questions divert from her mother. "How long have you been the apprentice of Mary Clark at hospital?"

"Since medical school," Evie replied, her interest in this new line of questions piqued. "About 5 years."

"Were you aware that Mary Clark was in MI5's employ?"

Evie's eyes widened at that. "No."

"Were you aware that Mary Clark was a nurse in the Queen's employ at Buckingham?"

Evie's shock only grew. "No."

"Would you be willing to take her place?"

Evie stared at him. "I…what?"

"Your mission, Ms. Eve Caldwell, should you choose to accept it," Agent Thomas smiled at this, as if he had waited his entire life to sound like a character out of a Bond film. "Is to enter the Queen's employ as a royal nurse."

"I…" Evie stuttered, her mind suddenly a million places at once. This was all so much to take in and so much had happened already that day. The American government had collapsed. Her father was trapped in New York, status unknown. The world was in turmoil. Mary Clark had passed away only the night before. Mary had been in the MI5 and a nurse for the Queen. And now an agent from the MI5 was offering her, Evie, the job. "I…"

"The benefits are good, don't worry," Agent Thomas reassured, as if that fact was actually reassuring. As if that was the only issue that would concern her.

"I…" Evie rubbed at her sweating brow with the back of her hand. It was warm in there. She thought about what taking the job would mean, but then a commonsense part of her told her that it would certainly be a very secure position and what with the economy the way it was at the moment… She sighed. But then she thought of her father, and she knew what she had to do. "I'll only accept if you can help my father."

"Your father?" Agent Thomas repeated, looking a bit dumbstruck for the first time that day. Evie inwardly delighted in turning the tables.

"Yes, he's trapped in New York at the moment and I want to get him out," she replied seriously.

"Ms. Caldwell…I don't think…"

But Evie cut him off. "I won't agree otherwise."

Agent Thomas stared at her and she held his gaze until he finally took in a breath and sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

"I need more assurance than that," Evie pressed, attempting to stare him down.

She was almost surprised at how quickly he relented. "Alright, I can set up a contract for the agreement. Will that satisfy your terms?"

Evie thought about it, but she couldn't see anything dubious in his offer. She closed her eyes and breathed a little through her nose as a calming exercise before looking back at him again. "Alright…okay…fine. I'm in."

"Alright." Agent Thomas looked pleased, and passed a file to her over the desk. "Here's your first assignment. You will begin today at Buckingham."

"I'll sign that contract first."

Agent Thomas grimaced, but didn't argue as he went to get the paperwork.

It was raining by the time they arrived at Buckingham palace and someone from the palace staff rushed down the steps with a black umbrella to open the car door for her and helped her out onto the gravel walk. Before she knew it she was debriefed further on her assignment by the head of staff and was rushed to an ornately decorated bedroom in the staff quarters, where Mary had apparently stayed before her.

She changed into a cleanly pressed nurse's outfit. One that looked as if it was plucked straight from World War II, complete with a white hat that tapered on either side of her head. Then she sat down on the edge of her bed and picked up the file with her assignment.

She stared at the photo attached within, uncomprehending. She didn't know this man in the photograph. She had never seen him detailed in any gossip tabloids about the royal family or even Parliament. He was completely unfamiliar and yet she had the strangest sensation that she should know him. It was like something tugging at her soul, and the feeling wouldn't let her be as long as she continued to stare at the photograph.

When she opened her bedroom door, someone was there to show her to his room, and when she entered, everything was still, including the man on the bed.

"He is asleep right now," her guide told her, a nice old woman who called herself Abby. "Please let him rest, but monitor his progress. If he wakes, don't hesitate to alert the staff, dear."

Evie nodded and then the woman was gone, and she was left alone with the unconscious man.

The room was just as ornate, if not more, than her new quarters, but the bed was replaced with a hospital bed – white linens covering the pale form wrapped within, like a cocoon. The rest of the room was a mixture of green and gold hues, and it reminded her somehow of springtime.

There were also a lot of 18th century naval ships. Naval ships in glass bottles on the dresser, on top of the fireplace, painted on numerous canvasses posted to the walls with ornamental frames. The theme continued with anchors carved into the door and dresser handles, and golden oil lanterns bolted into the walls. A large brass telescope sat propped by the window as if it had been used recently and strange metal instruments sat on a cherry wood desk next to an old quill and ink bottle. It was almost like a child's room, if that child was royalty and had grown up in the 18th century.

She stepped in gingerly, spotting a plush chair beside the bed and sitting on it while placing her bag of supplies on the floor. She stared at the IV drip bag hanging beside the bed opposite her, and then to the slow heartbeat illustrated in red lines on the heart monitor.

He was being kept sedated.

She watched him for a bit. His lips parted. His chest rising and falling slowly, evenly, the heart monitor beeping in a slow even beat, and she began to feel a bit sleepy. By now it was 5 o clock in the afternoon and her eyelids felt heavy by the events of the day.

But just as she was about to nod off quite against her will, the even breath hitched and the heart monitor quickened a beat. She looked up to see the man stirring, his eyes fluttering, but he didn't wake. Slowly, his lips pursed, as if to scowl, his once calm brow wrinkling with worry.

His mouth opened. "Alfred…" A whisper. "Alfred…no…"

Alfred. That was the first word she had ever heard him say, and months later, in retrospect, she would understand how profound that was, but right now she could only hear the pain in his voice and wonder where it came from.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

AN: Yeah, so, this fic has turned a tad epic…to say the least. I hope you all are enjoying it, because it's both incredibly rewarding and incredibly difficult to write. I think that happens when you try to cram Anglo-American history, Native American history, economic theory, current world events, international crisis management structures, British government structure, politics and original characters into one fic.

Why yes, I am a complete masochist. How did you know?

That said…this will be continued…over my dead body


End file.
